


burning yesterday

by orphan_account



Series: flint and steel [1]
Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Criminals, Arson, Graffiti, M/M, Murder, minsung being... criminal soulmates??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:07:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23868010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Minho has a track record of hanging out in places he shouldn’t.And, well. Doing things he shouldn’t.(Minho and Jisung meet in what may or may not be a coincidence.)
Relationships: Han Jisung | Han/Lee Minho | Lee Know
Series: flint and steel [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1764163
Comments: 9
Kudos: 74





	burning yesterday

Minho has a track record of hanging out in places he shouldn’t.

And, well. Doing things he shouldn’t.

It’s been this way for a while.

But there’s something about the tang of smoke in the back of his throat and the flare of light in his eyes that keeps him from losing his grip on reality altogether. Or that of watching his own mind materialize in front him in the form of spurts of color and words that almost don’t make sense. (There’s a glory to committing crime.)

If not for his daily task of keeping his two lives separate to keep him on his feet, he doesn’t know what he would have done with himself. He’d probably be dead or something. Alive, but not living. The thrum of blood in his temples isn’t something he can earn from doing mundane things, after all. Nor the scars on his fingers and arms. Injury, bleeding, the clicking of his arm when he pushes it back into its socket -  _ that’s  _ living. Not whatever office jobs most people work.

An office job would be interesting, though. The sight of all the paper and carpet dissipating into a flurry of orange, displayed through the large windows for the world to witness… it would be quite a sight, wouldn’t it? Against the backdrop of the pitch-black night sky, too clogged with gray to see the stars. Oh, it would be gorgeous.

Or painting the placid white walls in swaths of neon - a mural of everything and nothing, maybe a touch of some words sure to invoke rage in the onlooker. The kind of art that doesn’t belong in a museum and for good reason. Who confines the strength of being to the silent halls of a building meant for those falsely convinced of their intellect?

Minho is out of spray paint for now, but he hasn't run out of oil and matches. He has quite a few of those, in fact. Maybe arson is a cliche thing - graffiti is more original, speaks to the soul, but Minho has days where he wants to burn himself down so he burns buildings instead. The empty ones, where the only voices he can hear are those of his own footsteps and the flowers growing through the cracks in the pavement. It’s child’s play, really; the whole shebang of playing with candles specifically because your mother told you not to. The vanilla-flavored ones specifically.

He doesn’t think of his mother’s vanilla-flavored candles when he burns buildings, though. He thinks of incense, watching as flame spreads from the windows to the grass and the flames disappear in little wisps of smoke. A ritual, a pretty thing. Or desecration - it’s all the same, anyway.

With one little match, he can wreak havoc, create his own stage in the dead of night - or day, if he’s feeling more restless - flames dancing in front of his eyes, along paths of oil, in his heart where they spread and turn his lungs to ash. The heat presses against his face, twirling under his sleeves and threading through his hair - and Minho’s never had a lover, but he thinks this must be what love feels like.

\--

He doesn’t check the news anymore, though he used to.

He liked seeing articles with grainy pictures of buildings aflame. More than that, however, he liked reading the words of the journalists. Not quite caring, but puzzled. Why arson, all of a sudden - why so  _ much  _ of it?

And if he was lucky, he’d find the opinions of a few loudmouthed people in the comment section, saying things like “what the hell, that’s creepy” or “what psychopath is doing this?” Those made him laugh.

To his bitter regret, however, few articles were written on his graffiti. He was a little more proud of that - he put thought into his designs and messages, but, well. He can’t have everything.

Other than the people online, the only others Minho could hear an opinion on his works from were the cats on the street just outside his apartment. Though he stopped talking about burning things to them after a while because that seemed kind of weird, even to him.

Soongie, Doongie, Dori. Those three are the regulars, always showing up outside. Of course he buys cat food for them before heading to work. How could he  _ not _ , when they look at him with their huge eyes and only watch from afar until he set three bowls down?

To pay for that cat food, of course, he has to have  _ some  _ source of income. He repairs cars, fiddling with their parts and wondering about less conventional ways to address his clients’ problems before remembering that this is his job, not a hobby.

His boss likes to comment on his diligence and intuition, though something he just won’t stop asking about is the marks on his arms. Good intention, of course, but isn’t one answer enough? He also likes to say that Minho has a frightening look in his eyes when he glares at engines that just refuse to work - another teasing remark, but still annoying.

Minho likes causing a scene, but only when he goes out of his own way to draw attention. And even then, he doesn’t like to be at the center of the spotlight.

\--

Tagging graffiti isn’t something that sits right with Minho.

The idea of having his own identity attached to his work is intuitive, but at the same time, he rather enjoys the mystery. It also makes it more difficult for people to trace his works to his true identity, which is something he’s grown to appreciate more than at his start.

Yes, he may be reckless to a fault, but he’s not completely stupid.

He’s chosen a train car for tonight’s canvas - cliche but for a good reason. A limited plane to work with and just experiment on. Leave a couple of odd messages behind that he doesn’t know the meaning of, maybe, or letters that don’t make sense but have enough color and pizzazz to stick in any person’s mind days after they see them.

Yesterday, he went to buy spray paint. He chose neon red, yellow, and blue because he can’t go wrong with the primary colors. He doesn’t really know what he’s doing - his hand is moving lazily to form bubbly characters and figures, like a child’s doodle blown to life-size. Not his best work for sure, but soothing. Maybe this is how people feel when they do those coloring for relaxation things.

He’d never really liked those. Back when he had wanted to improve himself, he’d tried one just to see if they deserved the hype. However, he found staying inside the lines to be stressful enough to completely counteract whatever therapeutic effect the coloring was supposed to have.

He finishes after an hour, stepping back to examine his odd drawings in the style of artists in movies - tilting his head this way and that while humming for dramatic effect. Even alone, he quite loves to put on a show.

None of the cats are there when he gets back home. Mood slightly dampened, Minho falls asleep at five A.M. dreaming that’s he covering the darkness festering in his mind with swaths of color. And then to top it off, he burns it all away, waking to the noise of blood rushing in his ears and his chest alight.

\--

Fire in daytime is an underwhelming yet oddly enticing thing.

Minho rarely succumbs to the urge to burn when it strikes him as the sun still hangs in the sky - but now that it’s just starting to set, painting the world in shades of orange and pink, he decides he can allow for a little indulgence.

He’s had his eyes set on this building for a while; its dilapidated wood plus the fact it’s isolated just outside of a forest the world has seemingly forgotten makes it perfect. This afternoon, just as the sun is starting to wave goodbye, Minho drives up to the house and takes a moment to examine it.

In the window, torn curtains hang. The door is covered in graffiti obviously created by an amateur, hanging off its hinges and letting out plaintive noises in the light breeze. Who might have lived here?

The box of matches hangs heavy in his pocket, thudding lightly against his thigh with every step he takes toward the building. He doesn’t even need oil here; the wood is old, dry,  _ perfect _ .

He steps inside, glancing at the moth-eaten couch and stained carpet on the floor, then looking up to see a man who regards him with suspicious eyes and legs pulled up to his chest.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, leaning forward so the chair creaks.

Minho smiles. “Care to give me an introduction?”

“No.” The man looks like he’s caught off-guard, but not scared. Quite the opposite, in fact. “Would you?”

Minho smiles a little wider. “I wouldn’t.”

The man scoffs and turns his attention back to the dirty window. From it, only a few rays of light scatter through the room, highlighting his cheekbones and the glimmer in his eyes. Minho doesn’t dare to walk closer, but he doesn’t quite want to turn around either.

“What is there to look at?”

The man’s face shifts to an almost impassive expression - keyword being almost, because Minho can still see the flicker of uncertainty across his face. Whatever he does, he’s not the most experienced in acting like a criminal. It’s almost endearing. “Things more interesting than fire.”

“Fire?”

The man nods. “You’re an arsonist, by the look of it.” He makes careful eye contact only after standing, gaze shifting to give Minho a once-over. “Did I get that right?”

“Not entirely.”

“Oh.” The man’s face twists in a show of faux thoughtfulness. “At least I got some of it.”

He brushes past Minho without so much as a word of goodbye. He doesn’t look out the door at the man’s retreating back, knowing he’ll be nowhere to be seen, and pulls out his lighter.

Wait. Where is the matchbox?

The crackling wood at his feet is gleeful, sparking in little bursts of teasing.  _ Fool,  _ it chants,  _ fool, fool, fool _ , and Minho’s stomach sinks with a feeling equal parts anger and excitement.

It’s been a while since he’s met a person who’s intrigued him this much. Though he knows, from the way he had carried himself and spoke, that they won’t be seeing each other unless that man wants them to, his anticipation rises like the flames curling up the wall.

\--

So burning things and graffiti are two of Minho’s hobbies. As such, he has to take on another: taking care of his appearance.

It’s not quite something he enjoys; he especially hates having to style his hair, but he only does that so he can appear a little more presentable. He’s gotten good at using makeup to shift the way light plays with his features, something he takes advantage of fairly often.

He’s also got a wide assortment of clothing, most of it thrifted but good enough to use for his purposes. It’s never quite a good idea to go outside for two different aims looking like the same person, after all; thus he adopts the practice of buying cheap clothing and maybe adding a couple of details or stitches here and there to make it something that suits what he has in mind. Sewing has become another hobby of his, though not one he enjoys.

Something he actually has fun doing is completing puzzles. This one isn’t really related to any of his other interests; knowing how to finish a Sudoku won’t help him make a quick escape from a crime scene, will it? But when his fingers are tingling with unease on slower days at work, he always has his mini book of puzzles with him, to do as many as he can until either the anxiety is held at bay or a new customer shows up.

For all the Sudokus he completes, Minho thinks he must be a little insane.

The past few nights have been rough. Every now and then, he grows hesitant to practice his craft - there are eyes everywhere, and a pair of them must be set on him. It could be anyone. The cashier at the convenience store, his boss… hell, even the guy who stole his matchbox. Especially the guy who stole his matchbox.

Minho’s never had anything stolen from him right under his own nose; the now-affirmed reality that it could happen is a stinging slap to the face. And the knowledge that he could err at any moment now haunts him in his sleep until he wakes with his head clouded for a moment just as striking as it is fleeting. Never before has he taken so much comfort in having his apartment to himself, able to pace and mutter for enough time to calm himself.

It’s getting unsafe at this point, but Minho knows better than to cave in to the ineffective pills in the back of his bathroom cabinet. Hence, he keeps quiet, concentrating instead on his boss’ annoying comments and the motions of examining people’s cars and feeding the cats when he gets back home. And if he focuses all his energy on that, it’s enough. Most of the time.

Tonight, for example, it isn’t.

A drive just under an hour on the highway will bring Minho to an abandoned mental hospital. A few days earlier, he’d been wasting his time reading conspiracy theories on blogs with hideous layouts about how it was supposedly haunted and home to the sacrificial altar of some little-known cult. All untrue and designed to draw site traffic, of course.

Now, however, standing with a can of white spray paint in one hand, Minho can see why people would be moved to write such things in the first place. His heightened hearing alerts him to the noise of something shifting - and it’s just the trees, but he recalls the grainy pictures and lets his mind wander for a little bit before returning to his task. The building towers above him, floors upon floors of shattered glass and whistling wind that set the fine hairs at the back of his neck on edge.

He thinks of something to write, a quote popping in his mind from a novel he had read in high school - what was it called?

The building creaks, the noise coming at the same time as his realization:  _ No Longer Human _ . A good read, though he doesn’t quite remember what it was about. He just remembers a handful of sentences, one of which he begins to write on the wall in a blocky yet simple style:

_ What’s the antonym of crime? _

He’s finished writing “crime” when he hears from behind him:

“The law, of course.”

He recognizes that voice. “You took my matches,” he says, letting a little petulance slip into his tone.

“You’re not a very attentive person.” A few steps and then the all-too-familiar stranger is standing right next to him, just close enough for Minho to edge a little away. “Also, you don’t seem like the type to enjoy a Dazai book.”

“No one  _ enjoys  _ reading his works. They enjoy thinking about them.”

“And quoting them to seem knowledgeable.”

“Yeah- hey.” Minho glares at the man, who only sends a smirk back. “It seemed fitting.”

The man shrugs. “So this is what you meant by ‘not entirely?’” He steps away when Minho goes back to work rather than answering, though the fact he’s watching stirs enough noise in his head for it to make no difference. “Lame. I would have thought you did something more interesting.”

“Like what,” Minho says against his own will, “murdering people?”

He turns to see the man watching him, teasing smile playing on his lips. “No,” he answers, and the conversation ends there.

He lets Minho work in silence until he finishes the question mark, startling him when he asks, “Can I draw something too?”

Minho raises an eyebrow but hands him the can. “Don’t waste all of it.”

When the man is done, one juvenile sentence is scrawled across the brick backdrop, punctuated by a little smiling face:  _ Sungie was here!  _ Minho resists the urge to slap a palm to his forehead, opting instead to snatch the spray paint can back.

“Could you act any more like an edgy teenager?”

“Sungie” waves him off. “Like you can talk, with your edgy novel quotes.”

“While we’re at it,” Minho sighs, “now is a good time to tell me your name, isn’t it?”

As if on cue, the lamp at the edge of the parking lot flickers on with a buzz, casting the man’s face into a playground of light and shadow before turning back off.

“Jisung.” Careful. “Yours?”

Against his better judgment, he returns, “Minho,” and Jisung gives him a reserved smile.

“I’ll be off,” he says, disappearing in a flash of feather-light steps. Minho watches, spellbound.

The street light flickers on again, telling him it’s time to go. He resists the urge to remain rooted to the spot, staring at Jisung’s messy smiley face, and heads back to the car.

The unrest in his chest deepens. And Minho is no fool - he knows that from now on, it can only get worse.

\--

His boss is dead-set on being annoying.

“You look different,” he remarks, sneaking up noisily on Minho as he changes spark plugs. Does he have nothing better to do?

Nonetheless, Minho laughs. “Do I?”

His boss nods. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you’re taking longer to get things done. I hope you resume your more productive work ethic,” he chastises before turning to go pester someone else.

Well, at least it wasn’t a comment on his arms. He presses his lips into a taut line and sets his thoughts aside for now. He can mull over them all he wants to later.

(That is to say, he doesn’t mull over them at all. They only pounce on him in his dreams, in the form of shadowy dead-ends and a nebulous future and unreal people. A good combination to vent through art, but not something Minho can bear to sleep through. He wakes up disoriented more often than not these days.)

Yesterday, Minho had gone to burn a house close to the one he met Jisung in. It was in a similar state, clearly abandoned for years, yet Minho stood on its doorstep as if he was going to ring the doorbell and pay his memories a visit. The absence of matches in his pocket felt all too noticeable, even with the lighter as a decent substitute. Briefly, the image of the little box burning in Jisung’s hand flashed through his mind. What a weird idea - the matches meeting the end they would have inflicted upon something else.

He sighed, breath puffing out in front of him in the abnormally chilly night. Jisung was not there. Maybe it was weird to expect him to show up. Then he flicked the lighter off- on- and ultimately set fire to nothing.

Minho supposes his conscience has finally caught up to him. If so, living in ignorance would be much nicer.

If he runs a little faster, he’ll be free of its clutches again, so…

So as soon as he gets off work, barely acknowledging his boss’ comment on his increased speed, he knows where he has to be.

Night falls, and he heads to the building from the night before. Standing there is a certain Jisung.

“Good evening,” he calls, voice echoing slightly in the space around them. Minho just waves back.

Upon getting closer, he can see that Jisung’s light clothes are stained with something darker and that his hair hangs in his eyes, matted with sweat. Best not to ask, he figures, coming to a stop just in front of him. His hand, still in his pocket, tightens around the lighter.

“You’re really predictable,” Jisung says.

“Then why hasn’t a single cop caught me yet?”

Jisung hums, eyes twinkling mirthfully. Minho doesn’t know what all the joking is for, and though the better part of him sees no harm in playing along, the thought still festers in the back of his head that the man standing in front of him is no one to be reckoned with.

“Would you like to see something?”

Jisung sighs. “You’re going to set this building on fire. Predictable.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Just like when he had been watching him create graffiti, Jisung stands just behind Minho, attentive eyes boring holes into his back. It feels rather similar to his boss scrutinizing his work - like Jisung is going to say “this is a clumsy job, do you think this engine will survive a few seconds?” any moment now.

But he says nothing, just watching in silence and face drawn into a mask still marred by the faint remnants of what looks like shock.

“You like doing this?” he asks, placing a hand over his nose.

Minho hums. In the light, he can clearly see the dark patches on Jisung’s coat are splatters of dried blood. “I can’t imagine you do anything better.”

Belatedly, Jisung seems to realize his appearance. “Well, if you say so.”

Minho smiles. Victory.

The flames highlight the hidden intensity in Jisung’s gaze - a mix of uncertainty and anticipation, the feeble emotions blended into something volatile. There’s certainly something hidden behind his coat, Minho observes. From the size, it appears to be a gun.

Knowing that puts him at ease. The tension seeps out of his shoulders as he turns his attention to the masterpiece quickly spiraling out of control. “I suggest we get out.” He laughs at Jisung’s faint frown. “What are you so sad about?”

“You,” Jisung whispers. “I pity you.”

Minho blinks. For some reason, that statement only elevates his mood. “I’m honored,” he quips, relishing in the way Jisung’s eyebrow twitches. Reflected in his eyes is the fire. So, so pretty.

\--

Jisung appears at every building Minho wants to burn, each time offering his only explanation to be that he’s “predictable.”

Minho knows not to believe that anymore - not that he had in the first place.

Sometimes Jisung’s coat is marred with stains of dried blood, or his face drawn into a thoughtful expression that disappears as soon as he sights Minho. He’s pretty sure Jisung has the gun on him at all times, though he’s gotten better at hiding it. Either that, or he wanted Minho to know.

Both ways, he’s just as afraid of Jisung as Jisung is of him.

One time, just as Minho pulls out his lighter, it begins to rain, clouds rolling over their heads in a gray mass that Jisung looks at with thinly veiled joy. With rain pressing his bangs flat against his forehead, he looks almost ethereal. Like as soon as the rain stops, he’ll be gone as well, leaving only a faint sense of melancholy and the scent of petrichor behind.

But he stays, shivering slightly and making some wry remark that Minho doesn’t answer.

Jisung has an eye for burning but not for graffiti; he leaves Minho to do that by himself. “Vandalism,” he claims, “is dumb,” to which Minho responds, “So is whatever you do.”

In truth, he knows that he detests them both equally. Minho is no fool.

If he thinks a little harder, he thinks Jisung must also detest himself. No person with a shred of self-preservation sticks around a crime scene that’s not even their own, not unless they have something inside of them they want to do away with.

So Jisung is one of those people who still values his conscience. He must be driving himself insane. Or he must be incredibly lonely.

(Does Jisung find comfort in the warmth of others’ blood? An errant thought, but-

But Minho is the same. He just doesn’t know it. And he won’t, not until he realizes a veil of smoke can hide him from so many things but not himself. And he can try everything he can, steel himself by committing every crime imaginable, but Minho is the naive one here. His own nature will prevent him from abandoning his guilt.)

\--

The next place they encounter each other isn’t inside an abandoned building, nor in front of a wall turned canvas. It’s not even during the night.

In broad daylight, Minho meets Jisung smack in the middle of the cat food aisle. And, for once, he doesn’t bother to hide his surprise.

“I’m getting food for my friend’s cat,” Jisung says by way of explanation. “I have to cat-sit him.”

Minho tilts his head to the side. “You have friends?”

Jisung pretends to throw a can of tuna at him, grumbling when he doesn’t even flinch. “Do you?”

He shouts in victory when Minho shrugs, covering his mouth and grimacing as if just remembering they’re in a convenience store rather than in a desolate building.

It’s odd, seeing Jisung like this - dressed in sweats rather than the omnipresent coat, expression open, hesitant to even strike up small talk with the cashier. Not quite a mockery of the man he knows, just an adaptation suited for another world. The only similarity is how he carries himself: just short of cocky. That and the shine of anticipation in his eyes.

He waits for Minho to finish buying his cat food and other articles of instant food (he had shriveled his nose in mock distaste when he noticed Minho getting instant ramyeon), swinging his bag so it thuds lightly against his legs. “Will we be seeing each other tonight?” he asks.

Minho shakes his head; Jisung only nods and finally gets on his way.

He’s left, as always, watching and feeling like he’s missing something. Like missing the one sentence in a book that turned out to be the turning point.

(However, the reader will always realize what that sentence was as they read further. As such, Minho too will realize where this critical stepping stone in the maze of their relationship is. And what it means. Alas, that’s neither here nor there.)

As he fills Soongie, Doongie, and Dori’s bowls, watching as they eat without any apparent care for him sitting close by, he thinks that he’s burned many more buildings in the months he’s known Jisung than usual, though the amount of graffiti he creates is about the same. Fall is coming soon, and he thinks:

He met Jisung at the end of spring.

He doesn’t know why, but there must be some significance to that fact, so he asks Dori when she creeps up to him seeking ear scratches, “What do you associate with spring?” and laughs at himself shortly thereafter because he is stupid, stupid, possibly the greatest fool.

Doongie startles at the sudden outburst, and Minho sobers down until his laughter is only a slim echo among the cluster of apartment complexes. The sunlight beating upon his back provides little reassurance.

\--

Autumn means the world is bathed in his favorite colors, on fire yet not burning. The crisp air sates the restlessness stirring in his chest, though not the part of his mind that reminds him that the piles of dry leaves would look gorgeous if he just pulled out his lighter and-

No. Minho has to be careful. He’s already pushed too far - his game with fire won’t be a game if he keeps up the same pace for too long. These days, he’s been venting his unease through more graffiti.

He hasn’t seen Jisung for a while. He’d disappeared not with the light rains but with the summer storms - the last time Minho saw him was at the convenience store, though he thinks he’s seen a familiar back at the intersection one time. Though for all Jisung’s cunning, the next time Minho can see him might as well be the next day. Or never again.

He’s come to accept the latter as a more likely possibility. Considering the gun under his blood-splattered coat and the way he could appear and disappear practically at will, it would indeed make sense for Jisung to be taking refuge in some other  _ country _ . (One or twice, he’s had the urge to check the news and see if he might find blurry photographs of people that might be him - but Minho doesn’t read the news.)

Chuseok comes and goes. Minho doesn’t visit his family, not even his hometown - he doesn’t want to go there and doubts he’s wanted there in the first place. He does visit his great-great-grandparents’ graves and trim the weeds around them, though, if only to feel a little less disrespectful.

With the passing of just over a month, the memory of Jisung’s face and voice haven’t grown any duller. Quite the contrary, in fact - his recollections of him are probably sharper than what he had actually seen, considering at the time he was trapped in the semi-hallucinatory haze of smoke and flame. He doesn’t entertain the thought of Jisung remembering him, though.

The chilly air is starting to deepen into something that chills beneath Minho’s gloves. As the first snows begin to fall, Minho retreats into the abysmal normality of his life during winter. Usually, it’s in these months that he sets personal records for how many puzzles he can complete in a day, or how many journals he can fill with doodles that can’t come to life on a wall just yet.

He also never gets to see Soongie, Doongie, and Dori around this time of year; he doesn’t know where they go, but he hopes they’re warm.

This is some sort of interlude As the end of winter nears, so does the start of a new scene.

It comes sooner than Minho had expected, however, in the form of Jisung sitting in a pile of snow just outside the convenience store. His head is lolled back, eyelids half-closed and dripping with melted snowflakes. He paints a light, youthful image - Minho realizes at the same time he notices the street is void of any other person. Just them and the wind and the lightly falling snow.

“Hey,” he calls, “what are you out here for?”

Jisung turns his head in the slightest motion to look at him, lips parted in feigned surprise. “I wasn’t expecting to see you.”

He scoffs, stepping closer and all too aware of how Jisung’s footprints have been neatly filled in by the snow. “What are you doing?”

Jisung blinks. He wears a black coat now, standing out stark against the snow. Minho thinks it’s intentional. Then a new thought strikes him - Jisung doesn’t appear youthful in any way. His face is marred with fatigue. His leisurely position seems forced, as if to cover up collapse. He resembles a god of death. Even now, he can’t completely hide anything. How has he come this far?

A chill runs down Minho’s back. “What are you here for?”

Jisung stands, rubbing his hands together. There’s blood under his fingernails.

“Would it kill you to be a little more careful?”

“It would.” Jisung’s breath puffs out before him as he speaks. “How have you been?”

He’s clearly stalling, yet Minho figures it wouldn’t hurt to humor him. “I’ve been alright. You?”

“Good.”

They stand and watch each other for a few more seconds.

“I was going to get some snacks,” Minho says, though he wasn’t, gesturing at the convenience store.

Jisung accepts the invitation, and they walk inside. He still shrivels his nose when Minho buys instant ramen and persuades him to buy him some chocolate. “This is the only time you’ll be able to buy me something,” he says mirthfully, “so choose wisely.”

Minho hears the goodbye there, feels it in how Jisung lingers at his side until he pays and gives him the chocolate bar. Jisung smiles, unpeeling it slowly so its golden wrapper adds an extra layer of shine to the already bright scenery.

“You know,” he starts, breaking off a piece and holding it out. Hesitantly, Minho takes it. “You know, you’re probably the scariest person I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting. The scariest and the saddest.”

The dark chocolate melts in Minho’s mouth as he contemplates a response. “Is that a good thing?”

Jisung shrugs. “Up to you. I’ll be going, now.”

(The bitter aftertaste never quite goes away.)

**Author's Note:**

> all i know is that a bunch of lightbulbs went off in my head while listening to solar's "spit it out"  
> let me know what you thought of this disaster!


End file.
